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Jester King’s Funk Metal.

Why stop at oak and lactobacillus? Why not force an endangered animal to bathe in it, or add enough nutmeg to cause a large man to vomit while seeing god? The Scottish would go all the way. Brewdog would add literal gasoline and package the beer in the skull of a California Condor. They wouldn’t puss out with simple style-bending and racially uncomfortable artwork.

Sometimes you crash over the edge, my friends, and sometimes the edge comes crashing over you. In this case it’s most definitely the former. And the latter.

This tastes like a fucking bass line, like something that makes you dance in spite of yourself. Everyone around you is busy crying because grandma’s tumor just burst and you—you sick monster—you’re shaking your ass as if getting paid to do so. The brett and bacteria are at first almost too tart but then comes the rounded cocoa nodes of a fine sweet stout, rounding up everything almost goddamn perfectly.